


A Bad Dustin Hoffman Killer Virus Movie

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, F/M, Het, Insomnia, Internal Monologue, Nightmares, POV First Person, Pregnancy, Romance, Season/Series 08, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully has miserable pregnancy dreams now that Mulder is gone. Set S8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bad Dustin Hoffman Killer Virus Movie

If there were pills that made you stop dreaming, I would take them. I would take so many that I would die like Marilyn Monroe, too many pills, two boys too many too much living too little silence inside my very own head–

My mother never told me pregnancy brought so many dark dreams.

Maybe it’s the fetus itself. It lives in the dark. It survives on blood. And everything around it is uglier than being a prenatal vampire trying to take human form–

The dreams have to stop. I can’t think anymore with the images spilling from that liquid underworld of horror into my half-lit light, haunted with its own ghosts and monsters. I can’t see another broken figure, impaled on his own petard, smiling with love and eaten up with dying.

Mulder couldn’t have known he was dying.

Please, God, let that be true. It’s hard enough knowing that Special Agent Best of the Best of the Best John Doggett wants me to say what he suspects, to tell him that I’m not just his ignorant partner, I’m his ignorant lover, duped and left behind to be crucified.

At least nobody knows that I’m not only dumb enough to be duped, I’m idiotic enough to be thirty-seven years old and “in a fix” as Mom used to put it. I need my Mom. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her, but I need someone to hear my secrets and not need any help for them. Because Skinner is sweet but the idea of me pregnant is freaking him out. God, she’s going to be hell on me once I cry it all out, but at least the secrets won’t be festering here, hidden for my own protection.

I wish I could fall asleep. For someone who spends all her time dreaming of the dead, the apocalypse, the baby, and her very own personal hell, I’ve seen the sun rise too many times this week.

Maybe I’m the vampire. Maybe I’m sucking every bit of desperation I can into my soul and turning it into a grim, icy determination to live, to tell every tormentor in my life that they can throw everything they’ve got at me and I will survive like Gloria Gaynor– no. I’ll survive like Tina Turner and I’ll thrive and one day–

God, my head hurts. I wish my mom would call. She’s probably not in town right now. She likes to travel, which is a good thing considering all the times we moved when I was a kid, but right now I would give a significant amount of money and perhaps my dignity to have her right here right now.

I stare at the page of the book I was trying to read to make me tired. You’d think that Images of Sainthood in Medieval Europe would send anyone into the arms of oblivion, but that only works when you can make out the letters on the page. For me, they’re all a blur and even when I can understand a word, it doesn’t connect to the word before and the word after.

Nothing nothing nothing iconography nothing Saint Lucy’s eyes nothing and my God I would even wish for a dream now, because I can’t stay awake anymore in this grey world where there is no dawn and no sunset and nothing that connects except this emptiness.

I wish my mom were here.

That’s not entirely true. I wish Mulder were here with all my heart and soul, but if he’s otherwise occupied, I could use some maternal comfort.

What am I going to tell them?

You know when they said I couldn’t have kids? Um, they might have exaggerated a little– so start budgeting for two grandkids!

Wow, Mulder, I guess we should have used that condom after all!

Oh dear God, I’m not sixteen years old anymore. Why can’t I think of my situation in adult terms? I’m a competent, intelligent person who enjoys small children and gets along with them fairly well. I wanted a baby. I have a good job that will financially provide for myself and my child even in the unpleasant circumstance where Mulder doesn’t come home. My mother will be absolutely thrilled. She’ll cry all over me with happiness.

So why can’t I think sanely about this? Why do I feel like a little girl wearing fancy suits and a Lady Macbeth mask?

I throw the book across the room and walk over to the mirror. I keep staring in the mirror, as if somewhere across the looking glass, my real life will re-emerge and Mulder will tap me on the shoulder and ask me what I’m looking for.

My face is a stranger’s face. It changed overnight from a friend to a conniving strategist in the space of a few days. The woman I’m pretending to be stares stonily back while the real me cowers in fear of Daddy finding out how bad I am–

God, haven’t I flogged my Catholic guilt from here to eternity already?

I am big enough to handle this. I can handle this.

If I stare in the mirror long enough, the Ice Queen looking back at me will whisper how to get out of this fix. She’ll tell me the truth, won’t she?

And if I fall asleep looking at myself, what do I dream? Will something slip through the glass, something with my face but not my soul? Will she smile at me with lips red enough to be blood or ruby and then will she lean over, warm and spicy smelling, to kiss me goodnight?

The light diffusing through the blinds is pale and sullen with all the hope of spring and summer gone forever. The light is slipping past all my defenses to keep it away. It’s whispering that I should take a shower, wipe my eyes and put on the mask sitting on my dressing table.

So do I listen to the light or do I listen to the mirror? Or do I sit here and wait to drown in my own nightmares of blood and fevered unknowing?

I’m so tired. If only there was a way to sleep without dreaming, I’d take a day off– just a day– I’d try to sleep some heavenly peace, knit up the ravelled– unravelled– get some sweet oblivion is what I mean but I can’t think a straight line anymore.

Instead it’s walking dolls who kiss me good night, drowning in deep water, blood water, there’s so much blood and if I could take a pill to sleep without dreaming, I’d overdose.

I see my reflection, and for a second I think it really might be my own face. All the strength and iciness seem to crash and shatter like a bad layer of pancake makeup and instead there’s this shivering person with watering eyes and a face so transparent from weariness you can almost see her bones. I even think she might have the same headache pounding in her temples.

She traces her face slowly, the sad eyes, the dark circles eating up the skin, the faded lips, and I think that she and I have a lot more in common when we’re not pretending to be strong.

The light is getting warmer and I wish I could crawl into bed and fall asleep but I’m still not tired. I stand up and wander toward the shower, wondering what comes next in the ongoing saga of my life.

God, I wish my mom would call.

I wish I could sleep.

I wish not to dream.


End file.
